


Ora Sono Pronto

by MoonyFromTheMoon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drunk Yuri Katsuki, First Meetings, Grand Prix Final Banquet, M/M, POV Victor Nikiforov, Pre-Slash, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 06:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28346607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonyFromTheMoon/pseuds/MoonyFromTheMoon
Summary: "Of course, he wanted to win, he wanted to be the best. But more than winning, it was just living in the ice, the thing that kept him in motion… at least till his twenty six year, when he realized that the congratulations were sounding hollow in his head, that the victory wasn’t so sweet anymore."Victor's POV of his own career, and the Grand Prix Final Banquet.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Kudos: 25





	Ora Sono Pronto

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like.... two, three years ago? in my "Hanarezuni soba ni ite" madness. Posting it now as a late celebration to the "Ice Adolescence" trailer, and as a late gift for Victor's Birthday. For all of you that are still waiting. <3
> 
> I realize Stammi Vicino must have been Victor's program all through that season, even before meeting Yuri, but just humor me.
> 
> And please point me any big grammatical horrors, english is not my first language.

***********************************************************

Victor Nikiforov was twenty seven years old when he really met Yuuri Katsuki. He was twenty seven, had been skating for the best part of his life, had metaphorically reached the stars, and he was also lonely.

He knew he was still the best skater of the moment, labeled a “living legend” for some enthusiastic sportscaster. For four years in a row, he’d won the World Championships, a few Olympics, several other competitions in between, and he had just won the Grand Prix Final for the fifth time. But the thing was, he was starting to feel… weary. Not drained, exactly, but just like every smile for the audience required a little more effort, every program took him longer to figure.

Victor was the owner of a great imagination since he was a little kid. The first time he had to skate a program not only following the music, but engaging his own feelings in the process, his coach had told him _“you just have to imagine it like a story, Vytia. Listen to the music and see the story in your mind”_ and Victor had understood right away.  


At ten, he used to isolate himself for hours, playing the music in his head, enthralled by the story that was growing in his mind. He liked beautiful stories. His mum used to read him fairytales where beautiful Russian princesses were the protagonists, strong maids who befriended bears, escaped from witches, and finally, found a prince, with whom they would live all eternity. He wanted to be like those characters.

At fifteen, caught in the joy of competition and the testing and pushing of his own skills, he had long stored the tales in the back of his mind, just letting them go out like a feeling when he was skating, something extra he added to his programs, something he only remembered fully when he was undressing at night, his long silvery hair down. He remembered the princesses then, and the princes, and felt something, a vague feeling of looking for something, of _searching_ , but he could not point to what.  


He looked at himself in the mirror, feeling a question that he couldn't name, and then he would go to bed, because yes, there was practice tomorrow, there was practice every day, and he had no time for princes and wishful thinking. He loved to practice. It was all he wanted to do, really, feel the rough ice underneath the blades of his skates, and jump, and improve, surrounded by the music he had chosen, and even if it could seem like a monotonous life for some, he loved it. 

And of course, he wanted to win. He wanted to be the best. But more than winning (which he did a lot, first in the junior league, and even more after his senior debut) it was just _living_ in the ice, the thing that kept him in motion… at least till his twenty six year, when he realized that the congratulations were sounding hollow in his head, that the victory wasn’t so sweet anymore.

His priority seemed to have changed from living in the ice to just winning. The medals weren’t just a goal now, or the culmination of hard but gratifying work: They were a need for the world, a need for Russia, a need for his fellows competitors because Victor Nikiforov was the idol, the king to be dethroned, and he should remain like that, being just as wonderful but surprising everyone every time. And he couldn’t do that anymore. Not only his inspiration had vanished, but also his joy for the ice.  


He wasn’t living for himself anymore. He wasn’t skating to be happy.

He went back to looking at himself in the mirror at nights, his hair now short and his features now sharpened by the time, and to feel that unspoken question inside him. He looked into his own eyes, and he didn’t find what he was looking for. It was like not being able to find himself in there.  
And then the year of the Sochi Grand Prix Final came.

He still won the gold. He smiled, and said all the correct things, and was almost, almost happy. He had a new program on his sleeve for the rest of the season, almost ready, and he should have been looking forward to that. But he didn’t want to think about that… nor about the round golden metal trinket in his hand. He felt relieved when the banquet hour arrived. He had always loved parties, even if hadn’t much time for them. 

The warm feeling from the party and his fellow skaters was soothing a little his secret melancholy, and he was chatting with Yakov and his little rink mate Yuri, when he saw a very depressed-looking Asian skater enter the room, being driven by his coach. He knew Celestino Cialdini of course, but had just a vague impression of his pupils. The Japanese one's name was Yuri, that he remembered because of the similarity between his name and the one of his angry teenage friend. He had noticed the japanese staring at him when they were leaving the skating palace. But he didn't remember seeing him skate. Victor was always a little ashamed of his “vague head” and his incapacity for paying attention to... much of the world, actually. To tell the truth, he didn’t have in his radar anyone who didn’t classify in the 4 first world places. It wasn’t that he despised them or something. It was just that he didn’t catch the names. Or faces. Or sometimes even countries.

So it was kind of funny that his gaze fell in that younger skater, the one with the glasses and the horrible tie. Maybe it was that his depressed stand felt… familiar. Not that Victor had ever felt depressed, of course. Meditative perhaps, but never depressed. And he had never failed in such a spectacular way as people were saying the asian had done today. But there was something in his pose, in his eyes when he was staring at the infinite instead at his hands or his shoes, something that caught Victor attention. A sort of… abandon of hope? Of strength? Of will? He didn’t know. The Victor from a couple of years back wouldn’t have sympathized, or even noticed him. A couple of years before, that guy could have been one more face in the crowd to him. But he was seeing him now.

And so it was that he noticed the awkwardness in Yuri, the way he shied from people, and the multiple times he opted for the champagne table as that night’s partner.  


He was very attentive to this inebriation process when Yakov reclaimed his attention to meet some prospective sponsors _(god, did he really needed more of them?)_ and he lost the boy from sight for a couple of minutes. 

When he saw the Japanese boy again, he was practically next to him, talking to the most improbable person to talk in that party (or actually, in any party): Yuri Plisetsky. Victor loved Yuri. He was for him like a mix of younger brother and constantly angry pet (a kitten of course). He also admired the little boy, seeing in him an enormous talent and potential not unlike his own at that age: Even if the motivations of the boy were nothing like his own, there was a similarity, an endless desire to conquer the ice. But even Victor, who most of the days thought the adolescent's tantrums were something funny, wouldn’t say that the blond guy was the right person to have fun in a party. Maybe as a risk sport? He had seen that obnoxious Canadian guy teasing Yuri a lot of times.

But Yuri Katsuki (that's it! That was his last name! He remembered now seeing it in the table scores) was definitively talking with the petite Russian. Yes, he was talking, in a rather…challenging way? The party was loud, and he couldn’t hear what was being said, but just by looking at them Victor could tell how utterly drunk the black haired skater should be. Instead of his usual, respectfully, distant, and very Japanese stand, Katsuki was almost towering over Yuri, leaning on air in a somewhat unstable way, and punctuating with an accusing finger the sentences Victor couldn’t hear. Victor got closer, and could not resist to take a couple photos, maybe just for teasing the little blonde after.  


Yuri Plisetsky scolded, rolled his eyes, gave what was clearly a rude negative, and then… Yuri Katsuki was directing himself to the dance floor in big, surprisingly graceful strides.

And then, he began to dance.  
And apparently it was then that the party really started.

Victor knew that drunk people could dance. Someone better than others, but he had spent his teenage and adult days till now surrounded by very graceful people. Some people couldn’t jump and fall on their feet in that state. Yuri obviously could. But it wasn’t that why Victor was surprised. It was the change in the boy, almost as he was someone else. He was not just graceful, he was confident, doing with energy a sequence of break dance (who knows where he’d learned that). His eyes were focused, even through the alcohol mist that half closed them, his hair flew wildly, and his lips were moist, white teeth shining in the light of the room. He looked like a force of nature, something to be admired.<\p>

_“Oh, he is beautiful”_ thought Victor, even as he grinned helplessly at the sight. 

Then Yuri Plisetsky, obviously outraged at the show off, ran to the dance floor, and everything took speed, like Victor had just fallen down the rabbit hole, finding himself in a mad version of a Grand Prix Final’s banquet. 

He loved it, of course.

Both Yuri were clearly having a blast. Victor drew his phone off his suit, again, and began to take photos. He wasn’t the only one. He spotted Mila capturing furiously the moment with two phones at time (hers and Yuri, Victor supposed) and Cristophe, watching with a pensive smile the dance battle. Oh, Cris. That was dangerous. He’d known the Swiss skater for enough time to guess what he would do in this kind of situation.

The Yuri's Battle came to an end (with a very ruffled and mad Plisetsky arguing to everyone and no one) and Cris had his eyes on Yuri Katsuki still. Leaving the shy Japanese boy to the hiper sexual Cris was definitely something cruel, so maybe he should rescue him? Just…take him apart and introduce himself…

His hesitation was a mistake. Before he could move to protect the shy-now-energetic-Yuri, the other man had approached, and whispered something in the ear of the boy. Poor thing, who knows what Cris was proposing to him. He half expected to see Yuuri running away in shock.

He surely had not been expecting what followed next. 

Cris had a word with an employee from the hotel, and it was just a couple of minutes till people started to install a long metallic bar in some unassuming, innocent holes on the floor and ceiling. A pole. It was a dancing pole. Why did they even have a dancing pole in here?!

Even if he knew by then what was coming, when Cris and Yuri began to strip off their clothes, Victor actually choked on air. Yuri was stripping, first his shoes, and then his pants, getting rid of his clothes in an effective, if somewhat messy way, looking at Cris with a challenging stare the whole time. As if the effect of alcohol was fading away, he caught a passing waitress, took two glasses of champagne, and gulped them down. Then suddenly seem to freeze, looking around nervously... till his gaze found Victor.  


He just looked at him for a few seconds, and then walked straight to the pole.

Victor hadn’t the time to wonder about that look. The vision of Yuri’s tights was doing strange things to him. _He has beautiful legs, why doesn't he show them more?_ he asked himself, feeling dizzy without reason. Beautiful legs and beautiful strong hands, which grabbed the pole like he had done this before. Was this seemingly innocent boy a stripper at night?! The way his boxers clung to his… _derriere_ , was captivating too, and Victor found himself trailing with his eyes the waistband of the briefs as the black haired skater moved and danced around the pole. 

He mentally slapped herself.

Then Cris got on the pole, and the two men made a beautiful and sexy demonstration. And Victor absolutely wasn’t jealous that it was Criss, and not him, having fun on the pole _(and touching Yuri’s waist, being so close to him. God damn it)_. Yuri’s shirt was discarded at some moment, and the Japanese kept moving, twirling, dancing, the horrible tie still dangling from his neck, little beads of sweat appearing in his skin.

Then the sexy song they were dancing was over, and Yuri jumped from Cris tights to the floor, and began to dress, looking a little more self-aware. An impressed waiter offered another champagne flute, which he downed in one second.

Victor looked at him wistfully. Should he invite him to dance? Maybe he was tired. Maybe he didn’t even like Victor. After all, the japanese had practically ignored him when approaching Yuri Plisetsky. And he’d never tried to get close to him like the other skaters had, introducing themselves or making small talk, not even once.  


Victor Nikiforov wasn’t an insecure person at all. But he suddenly found that he couldn’t take a step to that drunk, adorable Japanese skater. And he suddenly realized that he wanted to meet him. He wanted to talk to him, to know about him, to see him up close. But all his infinite confidence had suddenly vanished, and he was getting glued to the floor, and losing the opportunity to look at those shining brown eyes, and to be looked right back.

But then a miracle happened. It seemed, to the suddenly incapable Victor, certainly something from fairytales, a miracle in its own right: Yuuri Katsuki was walking to him, blushing and disheveled, and looking straight into Victor’s eyes. 

_“VIIIIKTORU!!!”_ The boy pronounced his name in an exotic, charming way, and neither the horrible tie in his head nor the obvious way the three glasses of champagne had kicked in could affect that. The eyes of the boy were shining as he approached, and they seemed to turn even brighter when he said _“Please, Victor, would you have a dance with me? Pleaaase”_. Victor, feeling like he was seeing this from outside himself, gave a well pronounced yes, of course, and a polite smile. But when Yuri put his arms around him and practically grinded against him, Victor was left absolutely speechless.

The boy’s face was red, he smelled like alcohol, and was sweating profusely, but he still looked beautiful, alive and bright. And when he enunciated that _“Be my coach Victor!!”_ In his Japanese accent, Victor heart did something weird, like a quadruple Salchow followed by a somersault.  
Then they were hands taking Yuri from him. He looked and yes, it was Cris, encouraging the boy to dress _“Yes, Yuri, you can have that dance battle with Victor if you dress”_.  
<\p>

Yuri Plisetsky was fuming at his side, and when he told him “Are you really going to dance with that drunken idiot?” like he didn’t do that himself, he just stared at him, before returning his eyes to the Japanese boy.

Yuri Katsuki was currently putting on his pants, throwing him wide eye looks from time to time. He looked like nothing Victor had seen before, someone inexplicable made of beautiful, soft-looking skin, with the shine of the stars in his eyes. He felt like he could send away all the questions in Victor’s mind with just a smile, shy or bold. And when he finally stood, dressed but still disheveled, and looked at him, Victor said to the blond Yuri “Yes, I think I really want to dance with him”.  


Yuri crossed the few meters between them with a smile, still clearly drunk, but with a calm that made him look… ready.  


And then he extended his hand toward Victor.

*****

Yuri never called. 

Victor had written in a hurry his mobile number in some old ticket from his jacket, putting it in Yuri’s hand, who was being dragged to the exit by his outraged but resigned coach.  


He never called, and months passed, and Victor told himself that didn’t really matter. It was just a dance, just a night, not a promise in blood. He had thought the special gleam in Katsuki’s eyes when they finished their dance duel had meant that he would want to see him again, would want to talk to him. Didn’t he want Victor to be his coach? But when Yuri suddenly disappeared from the competitions after failing his nationals, and when Victor searched in various social networks for the boy with no good results (all accounts barely used, no point in trying to contact him there) he decided to stop trying, to stop waiting.

He worked on his new program with all his strength. He said to himself that he didn’t feel alone. And when the song he wrote turned to be about a yearning for love, of loneliness and hope, he didn’t permit himself to dwell on that. But he put all the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have, all those things he wasn’t supposed to think in that program, in his lovely and lonely dance.

He skated the rest of the season with more strength than ever. The journalists who were talking before about his age and retirement began to praise him again, but he didn’t really care. 

Then on the day of the World’s finals, with another gold medal in his hand, he prepared himself to announce a decision about his career. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would forget all his doubts and actually do something, even if it was something he didn’t want. It was time to actually change something, to keep going, to find himself again.  


The next day the video of Yuri Katsuki skating _Stammi Vicino_ appeared on Youtube.

He watched him perform his program, eyebrows creased. The way this boy skated in the silent video, just the way he moved, created music. Victor could hear faint notes of the song in his brain, and it wasn’t because he knew the program so well. He could feel and hear the yearning of the song in the movement of that arms, the veiled hope himself had skated showing on the face of Yuri, the music seeming to emanate from the moves of those muscles with relaxed but precise movements. Yuri's body was singing, in a way that maybe even Victor’s body couldn't sing. 

Victor found a well of anger deep in himself. He replayed the video, wondering why Katsuki was doing this now. Wasn’t he practically retired? Why, if he had this kind of strong and silent potential, he was gone from the ice, gone from the competitions where he should be shining to the world? Why now, more than a year from that Grand Prix, he just appeared from nowhere, skating of all the songs and programs in the world this song (his song)? Why, if he was talented and graceful and beautiful, hadn’t he reached to Victor, and told him he was ready to be trained? _Why didn't he want to see him again?_

He closed his eyes, remembering an almost made decision, the calculations he had made, the plans he had and that he’d shared with Yakov days ago.  


And then he remembered Yuri’s starry eyes, Yuri dancing with confidence and talent on the hotel's dance floor, and then his desolate, abandoned look at the beginning of that banquet, almost a year ago. He’d felt attuned with him. Like both were missing something, like maybe, both were without a way, a motivation, and were lonely.  


Then he knew what he had to do.

Today he would change his life, just… not like he’d planned. That night at the banquet, he hadn’t been capable of giving a step to reach Yuri first, but now it wasn’t going to be like that. Victor wanted to help him, wanted to look him in the eyes and understand. He didn’t know how the japanese would react, but he had to go and try, for himself, for Yuri and the stars in his eyes, for the veiled sorrow and the veiled hope that both seemed to share.

He knew what he had to do. And again, he was ready.


End file.
